Finding Home
by Kedakai
Summary: Malcolm goes missing; Hoshi wants him back


Title: Finding Home

Author: Kedakai

Summary: Malcolm is missing; Hoshi wants him back.

Rating: R

Disclaimer: This is Paramount's puppy. I'm just taking it for a walk around the block. The story is mine; Star Trek and the characters belong to Paramount. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: This started out as an experiment in voice and tense. Fair warning: it's a work in progress. If you're into instant gratification you won't find it here. I'm a notoriously slow writer. My thanks to MeanOldCow for betaing. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Finding Home

Chapter One: Missing, Presumed Dead

"Enterprise to Shuttlepod One. Do you read?" There is nothing, only the constant white noise of the universe. I don't like it. We should be well within communications range by now. I frown and try again. "Enterprise to Shuttlepod One. Lieutenant Reed, Ensign O'Conner, please respond." Again there is only a whisper of static coming over the open channel. "Come on." I mutter. I raise my voice and try yet again. "Enterprise to Shuttlepod One." My stomach twists with apprehension. It could be anything, I tell myself. They could simply be having comm trouble. I turn to look at Captain Archer. "Sir, I'm not getting any response from them." Archer shifts uneasily on his chair.

"T'Pol, anything on the sensors?" He asks.

"There is no sign of the shuttlepod, Captain, but I am picking up faint traces of some kind of radiation."

"Radiation?" Archer asks with a concerned frown. The cold sinking feeling in my stomach grows.

"I cannot determine the source. Perhaps once we are closer..." T'Pol lets her voice trail off.

"Travis." Archer says. "Increase our speed to warp four." I hear and feel the ship's vibrations change subtly as Travis complies with Archer's order. I tell myself that everything is probably fine and that we are hurrying for nothing, but I can't make myself believe it. I reach out and open up the channel again.

"Enterprise to Shuttlepod One..."

XOXOX

We are at the rendezvous point. There is no sign of the shuttlepod or our people. So far, all we've found is the unusual radiation that T'Pol had already pointed out. I don't really pay attention to the various theories that she and Trip are tossing about to explain it. I concentrate all my energy on listening, hoping to catch even the faintest hint of a reply, anything to suggest that Malcolm and Jack are alive. I had long ago switched to the automatic hailing system to preserve what was left of my voice.

We all pull a double shift, desperately hoping that our efforts will yield some clue that will lead us to Malcolm and Jack. So far we've come up empty handed.

Archer clears his throat before he speaks. "All right, people. Gamma shift will be starting in a few minutes. As soon as your relief arrives, I want you to go and get some rest."

I don't want to leave. Ensign Baird is good with the equipment, but his hearing is nowhere near as good as mine. He might miss something. Looking around, I see that I'm not the only one who doesn't want to go. Archer has no trouble reading our mutinous expressions. "That's an order." He says sternly. Then he sighs and adds in a gentler tone, "We can't help them if we're falling over from exhaustion."

"Yes, sir." I mutter. I don't want to go, but I turn my station over without complaint when Baird arrives on the bridge. The Captain is right. We need to rest. But I honestly don't think I could sleep now. Instead of going to my quarters, I make my way down to the mess hall.

I grab a cup of hot cocoa, wanting it more for the warmth than the taste. I sit down at a table in the corner and stare out the window. Malcolm is out there somewhere. I wrap my hands around my mug and sip the hot liquid, trying to draw in enough heat to melt the block of ice in my stomach.

The mess hall door opens and Trip and Travis come in. I guess they are as wound up as I am. They both fetch drinks and come over to sit with me. Trip breaks the silence.

"We'll find them." I know he's not as confident as he sounds by the way he fidgets with his glass of warm milk. I merely nod and look down at my rapidly cooling cocoa. "Malcolm's been in tight spots before and he's always managed to come through and Jack's a real resourceful fellow." He takes a sip of his milk. "I'm sure they're both just fine." Now it only sounds like he's trying to convince himself and I suddenly can't bear to listen. I stand abruptly, abandoning my cocoa.

"I'm going to try to get some sleep." I say before walking out of the mess hall.

Alone in my quarters, I find that sleep eludes me. I sit in my chair and stare out the narrow portal. Never before has space looked so incredibly vast to me. The gaps between the stars are huge and dark and cold. So many terrible things can happen within such emptiness.

I feel vaguely guilty because all I want is Malcolm back, safe and sound. I don't care about anything else. Ensign Jack O'Conner is far from my mind at the moment. I care about him as a crewmate, but I don't really know him. I only know that he is one of Trip's engineers and that he has a reputation for being good with the injector system. Jack O'Conner is an abstraction to me. Malcolm Reed is not. Malcolm is the man who patiently taught me how to handle the new phase pistols. He's the one who can make the dull, ancient movies shown on movie night fun by whispering wry comments at unexpected moments. He loves pineapple, warm Guinness, and well-aged scotch. He teams up with me to help me play practical jokes on Travis. He knows how to annoy me and how to make me smile and he has saved my life on more than one occasion. No, Malcolm is not an abstraction to me. He's my friend. And now he's missing, swallowed by the immeasurable darkness between the stars.

XOXOX

We are moving in a slow search pattern. Trip and T'Pol are manning the sensors, sweeping the area again. For the hundredth time. I strain to catch the slightest sound from the comm. There is nothing. No trace, no sign. It's as if they never existed. As each hour passes, the atmosphere on the bridge becomes a little less hopeful.

Days have passed into weeks. There is still no sign of them. We are now searching one of two barely habitable planets that Malcolm and Jack may have been able to reach with the shuttlepod. We all know it's a very long shot, but right now it's all we have. The Captain has sent Travis and Trip down in shuttlepod two to conduct scans closer to the surface. I listen, hoping that I will hear Malcolm's voice. But there is no answer to my constant hails.

XOXOX

The door to the ready room slides open and Archer clears his throat as he steps out onto the bridge. "We have new orders from Starfleet command." His voice is full of defeat and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say. "We're to proceed to Delpha Four where we will rendezvous with the Vulcan ship T'Vallan to take on new supplies and personnel. Travis, set a course. Warp three." My heart goes cold. An inarticulate sound of protest escapes my throat, but Trip's violent objection overrides my own.

"Capt'n! You can't be serious! What about Malcolm and Jack? We can't just leave them out here."

"Trip..."

"No! No way are we gonna do it."

"We've been looking for them for over a month."

"I don't care!"

"But Starfleet does." Archer's voice is deeply pained and I am certain that he fought bitterly against these new orders. "I've been told that any further delay in our mission will be met with strong disciplinary measures. Lieutenant Reed and Ensign O'Conner are now officially listed as missing and presumed dead."

"Capt'n..."

"It's out of my hands, Trip. I'm sorry." He retreats back to his ready room leaving the rest of us stunned and angry. I don't realize that I'm crying until I see the tears splash onto the surface of my console.

XOXOX

There are no bodies, but Archer insists that we hold a memorial service for Malcolm and Jack. I resent him for it. I know he believes that this will give us closure, but I feel no sense of finality or peace. All I feel is a bleak and bitter anger. We gave up on them. We abandoned them. We failed them in the worst possible way.

I refuse to speak at the service. As a linguist, I know better than most the power that words can hold. Call it superstition if you will, but I know that if I were to speak of Malcolm as if he were dead, then he would be dead in truth. By remaining silent, I leave his fate ambiguous.

As I watch the empty torpedo casings disappear, one after the other, into the tube, I can't help but wonder if he is alive somewhere, trusting that we will find him and bring him home. The thought of him alive yet forsaken makes my heart ache. I slip out of the armory before the service ends.

XOXOX

Three days later, Trip comes to my quarters. His eyes are rimmed with red and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. He looks almost as bad as I feel.

"I, uh...I've been going through Malcolm's stuff." He says. I feel a brief stab of guilt. Archer had asked me if I would do it and I refused. Apparently the burden ended up falling on Trip. "There were some things he wanted you to have." He holds out a box to me.

"Oh." It's the best I can manage and I feel my eyes filling up with tears. I can't bring myself to touch the box. I don't want Malcolm's things. I want Malcolm. The tears spill down my cheeks. I can't do this. I can't bear the thought that he is lost to us.

"Ah, Hoshi. Don't. Please don't." Trip drops the box on my desk and wraps his arms around me. I sob into his shoulder.

"We left him." The words spill out of me leaving the taste of anguish in the back of my throat.

"I know."

"What if he's alive? Oh God, Trip, what if he's alive?" Trip only shakes his head, rendered mute by grief.

Later that night I look through the box. There's an eclectic assortment of old-fashioned books, a small but beautifully carved wooden box, a data chip, and an exquisite cameo necklace. I'm a little puzzled by the last item. I run my fingers over the carved agate pendant. It's clearly an antique. I wonder what significance it has for Malcolm and why he left it to me. Perhaps Trip made a mistake. It seems like something that should go to his family - to his mother or his sister. I resolve to double check with Trip as I put it on. The chain is long and the pendant comes to rest over my heart.

I pick up the data chip and turn it over in my hands. I hesitate for a long moment before pushing it into the computer. Malcolm's image appears. He stares out at me from the screen looking ill at ease, but then his face relaxes into a shy smile.

"Hello Hoshi. These things are never easy are they? In fact, it's all rather awkward because if you're watching this then I'm de-..." I slam my hand hard against the off switch and his image disappears. With shaking fingers I pull the chip out and drop it on the desk. I stare at it for a very long time, but make no move to pick it up.

XOXOX

Three months later we have a new armory officer - one Lieutenant Thomas Matheson. He's tall, blond, handsome and outgoing. He takes over the armory with an easy competence. I hate him for it.

The weeks slip by and I think about Malcolm less often, but it's never any easier when I do. Sometimes I dream about him. The dreams are always bad. In some, I see him die. In others, he is alive and stranded on some bleak world, looking up at the sky, waiting for us to rescue him. I don't know which are the hardest to bear.

Guilt and grief still war within me. I wonder how long it will take before time anesthetizes the pain of loss and only the good memories remain. Part of me fears that it will never happen.

XOXOX

It's late and we're all drunk. It's been exactly one year since Malcolm and Jack were declared missing and presumed dead by Starfleet. Surely they are dead in truth now, but still I refuse to say it out loud. My continued silence allows me a faint illusion of hope.

We started out determined to celebrate Jack and Malcolm's lives, but somewhere along the line, after the third bottle of scotch, the evening had taken a sharp turn toward misery and self-loathing. "We never shoulda left. Shoulda kept looking 'til we found 'em." Trip says staring morosely into his drink. "Jack was a good man. And Malcolm." His voice slurs. "I bet Malcolm woulda stayed. He woulda disobeyed a direct order from the Fleet Admiral himself if he thought it was the right thing to do. Stupid stubborn English bastard." His voice cracks and he buries his face in his hands. Travis and I pretend not to notice that he's crying. We are all so tired of crying. I find myself wondering if it is worse for Trip. He was a friend to both of them. But I can't imagine how it could be worse.

I toy with my glass and glance at Travis. He is staring out the lounge window, eyes distant and lost. I wonder if he takes comfort in the sight of the stars. They are familiar to him. He grew up with them. My given name means 'star', but I have never found the stars to be friendly; have never found any comfort in them. Even from space they are ruthless and cold. I look down into my glass, and decide that I am not nearly drunk enough.

Much later, I return to my quarters. I am inebriated and exhausted, but I know that sleep will not come to me tonight. So instead of going to bed, I rummage through my closet until I find my keepsake box. I pull it out and open it. The number of things that have accumulated on top of the data chip surprises me. A blue spider silk scarf from Drashla Prime, a perfectly spherical rock from Ixcalis, a small brooch in the shape of an alien bird from Kala'ashali - I push these and several other trinkets aside and lift out the data chip. I've never been able to listen to it beyond the first few sentences. Nevertheless it is precious to me.

I cradle the chip in my hand for several minutes before taking it over to the computer. Malcolm smiles out at me from the screen. "Hello Hoshi. These things are never easy are they?"

"No, they aren't." I reply softly as I push a button and rewind to the beginning. I pause it as soon as he smiles. Part of me knows that I should listen to this message in its entirety, that he wanted me to hear it, but the greater part of me wants to keep him alive in my mind. Its pathetic and childish but I don't care. I reach out and gently trace the lines of his face with my finger. "What happened to you?" I ask his image sadly.

TBC...


End file.
